If he hadn’t looked through the paperwork, he never would’ve realized an American fought for life in the cell across the compound. Chance, happenstance, destiny or PFL, pure fucking luck—whatever the reasons—he had checked. The mission wasn’t supposed to be a rescue, but he’d be damned if he’d leave an American. Damned? He snorted at his word choice. Yeah right, in his line of work and with his past? His damnation had been signed and sealed—a first-class ticket to hell with Lucifer himself opening the door—but leaving an American prisoner? Not an option. Surprisingly, he still had standards.
While his men searched and cleared the interior of the holding facility with efficient, silent skill, Jacob moved to complete a quick visual assessment of the captive. Oh, fuck. The prisoner is a woman. Fuck! Training centered him on the task at hand. Alive. Head trauma and right eye swelling. Her left arm hung awkwardly—a break or a dislocated shoulder. One distinguishable black hematoma on her leg indicated a possible closed fracture. Deeply-caked grime covered her body and probably obscured more injuries. The vivid and extensive bruises over her body told the story of continuous beatings, but visually he’d be hard pressed to distinguish the bruises from the thick layer of muck that covered her. His glance landed on her feet. The bastards! He’d seen men tortured to this degree, but never had he seen such brutality inflicted on a woman. A glance at the wall displayed the etched lines in the soft plaster. A record of her days? “A” for effort, “F” for accuracy. According to the documents he seized, there weren’t nearly enough marks.
He tried not to compound her injuries when he lifted her and silently cursed. Too damn easy to lift. Just skin and bones. Far too light for her obvious height. She probably wouldn’t survive the trip to the aircraft. Hatred for her captors pumped through his veins as certainly as the blood that kept him alive. Within three strides to the corridor, Jacob’s team closed ranks and formed a protective shield around him. When the team cleared the building, Jacob took his first deep breath since he’d walked into the holding facility less than four minutes ago. The rancid stench below had violated his senses. Outside, the team kept to the shadows and with speed born from many operations, they cleared the compound. Jacob assessed the uneven ground, jutting rock abutments, and drought-stricken bushes. The rugged terrain that surrounded the camp would slow the team’s egress.
“Skipper, we got five clicks to the extraction point. You need me to carry her?”
Jacob glared at Chief, his communications specialist, as they continued to maneuver through the craggy hills using the natural valleys and shrub as cover. Jacob’s size and physical condition allowed him to carry the woman without effort even across the rocky and unforgiving terrain. His middle finger threw a ‘fuck you’ at the massive Cherokee. “Take the point and signal the bird we are en route.” The big man flashed a rare grin and sprinted forward.
His five-man team functioned better than any proverbial well-oiled machine. All parts worked as one. The squad knew the job at hand and performed it with precise, calculated efficiency. Breaking down? Not an option. Each man provided essential skills. As experts in their fields, they were handpicked for the honor of being on Alpha team. Elite warriors. Honed and perfected in the art of war. The men were equal parts of the whole and each would likely burn in the same pit in hell when the grim reaper caught up with them.
Jacob’s eyes never stopped scanning the horizon, his peripheral vision alert to any movement as he pushed his team forward. The safety of his men and concentration on the extraction point focused his attention to the end of the basin.
A low moan drew his attention to the woman he gently cradled. He knew even being careful with her, his movements caused pain, a lot of pain. They had less than a quarter mile to reach the extraction point when a C-17 screamed over their heads on a low landing approach. It would wait for them no more than one minute at the far end of the deep valley.
Jacob felt her head rock towards him. He glanced down again and looked into dark blue eyes that didn’t seem to focus. He watched her pass out again. Thank God. He didn’t need a screaming or crying woman on his hands. He didn’t do female tears. Ever. That really had to be in his job description somewhere.
A cloud of debris and dirt shrouded the aircraft blacking out any visibility of the hulking airframe. The back hydraulic door dropped, forming a vacuum sucking the flying dust inside the open gut of the machine. The gaping access beckoned them into the vast cargo hold. The transport reversed engines and slowed. Before the prop wash settled, the bird began to pivot down the valley for take-off. His team waited for his signal. On his mark, the first three men sprinted for the bird. The remaining men held in over-watch. When his first three men were inside, those remaining left the safety of cover. The last of his crew scrambled into the back of the aircraft just as it started its taxi down the valley floor.
Technically, the C-17 needed just over two thousand feet to become airborne. That limit didn’t register with combat pilots receiving hostile fire. The aircraft beat the hell out of any other airframe and that two thousand foot recommendation? Yeah, it was wrong. The incredibly short take off and landings were the reason the aircraft performed as the best tactical transport in the U.S. Air Force’s inventory. This particular bird? It didn’t belong to the government. Just like his team, the bird belonged to a private entity. Guardian Security to be precise—a subsidiary of Guardian International. The empire owned by David Xavier performed duties outside regular channels. They were the absolute best at what they did, and no single nation or governmental agency sanctioned Guardian Security—but all used them covertly. Technically classified as private security, they worked to free Americans from desperate situations, to protect humanitarian efforts around the world, and to provide safe passage and secure environments for VIPs and dignitaries of all nations. On occasion, they were authorized to take out some nasty bastards that nobody else could touch—legally. Like today. Guardian’s Alpha team and their skill sets were a last resort.
Before the men could strap into their jump seats, the plane climbed and banked radically to the right. Jacob sat down hard while still trying to maintain a hold on the woman. He wedged his legs against the cargo wall as the aircraft once again banked in a severe tactical avoidance maneuver that pelted him with his unit’s unsecured packs. He braced for the impact of the flying equipment and unconsciously tightened his grip on the woman. Her scream of pain pierced through the roar of the turbine engines, momentarily freezing the team as they launched after the wild cascade of cargo.
He winced at her tortured response. The woman’s face contorted as she shoved her fist towards her mouth biting down. He grabbed her hand and chin. In one sharp movement, he pulled, unlocking her jaw and removing her fist. He stroked her forehead and cheek as she cried out. “Shhh…you’re going home now. You’re safe.” Jacob wanted to tell her she would be alright, but probably, she never would be right. The torture she had endured would scar her forever.
Cargo bay lights turned on as the C-17 leveled off at cruising altitude. Absentmindedly he continued to stroke her cheek and watched as his team secured the wayward equipment. The body in his arms stiffened and drew his eyes to her. She stared at him. No, make that through him. Blank and detached. Her body was on the plane, but her mind wasn’t. He’d seen it before. Unfortunately, his team had experience rescuing people who had been held and tortured. He doubted the woman would ever be the person she’d been before. The reality of her condition stifled any thought of celebration at her liberation. A miracle she made it this far.
Jacob looked over his shoulder. “Doc you need to take a look at this arm and her leg. The shoulder joint is definitely dislocated. I think the leg may be broken. And Doc, her feet…shit.”
The medic threw some equipment storage cases off a pallet and put down a blanket. “Skipper, bring her over here and lay her down.”
Jacob lifted her, careful to avoid hurting her again, and walked over to the pallet. He lowered her with a gentleness that belied his massive size. When he straightened to leave, she grabbed his forearm with a strength that could only be pure adrenaline.
He glanced at her face and saw clarity. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” Her grip did not loosen as she scanned the cargo bay with the one eye she could open fully.
Jacob put his hand over hers and moved back toward her. “Okay, honey, if you don’t want me to leave, I’ll stay.” Her gaze searched his face for a long time. He watched the tension melt out of her body as she relaxed and her eyelid closed. Yet, her hand held onto his arm. He used American Sign Language and military devised hand signals to communicate directions to his team across the cargo bay and stayed beside her until she passed out again. ASL provided a silent means of communication and all members of Guardian were fluent. The skill had saved countless lives when even a whisper meant detection and death.
Doc completed his examination and called Jacob to the foot of the pallet. “Skipper, you were right,” he whispered. “Her shoulder is dislocated. I don’t know how long it’s been out of the socket, but if we don’t reseat it more damage to the muscle is a definite. Nerve damage is almost inevitable. She is so filthy I don’t know how extensive her internal injuries are. The bruising and the filth overlap. Infection is an immediate concern because of the condition of her feet. Honestly, to properly triage her, I’d need to cut away her clothes and bathe her before I could see what I’m dealing with.”